


The Watershed

by NoChaser



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gap filler for 510, Introspection, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoChaser/pseuds/NoChaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does Brian get to a point where he can actually say the words to Justin? Was it all just shock? An odd little gap-filler for 510.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Watershed

In a hundred years it won’t matter whether or not this moment happened.

There’ll be no raising up or toppling of vast empires, no destruction of an already fragile ecosystem because of it. No prizes won nor fortunes lost under its weight.

But it’s nonetheless a watershed a lifetime in the making. 

“I love you.”

Does it matter that this moment was sparked by the fuse of a bomb? Does it make it less true, less an emotional reality that he’d handled badly for years? It had never been the _knowing_ of it, but the _owning_ of it that he’d fought. Hell, everyone _knew_. But it was that silent knowing, that pretense of the absence of a thing. An unnamed elephant fucking a headless ostrich in the shadows.

No, he’d known it early in their… what? Their _association_ , perhaps their _connection_ – “ _You_ know _what it was, moron_ ,” the phantom fucker whispers from the shadows. Thrust. Thrust. – their _relationship_ , which is what it had been since day fucking one, and in this moment… this moment…

This goddamned moment of almost losing him again. Not in that temporary ‘to another’ sense, but that there would be no shared breathing of the same air, no shared warmth from the same sun. In the sense that twice – fucking twice! – Justin could have _died_. That his heartbeat could have stopped, that his eyes could have lost their light, that his smile could have… _no, no, no, God no, NO!_

He should have told him then, when it was ridiculously romantic, was going to tell him then, but a baseball bat fucking scared him back to the denial that lays at the bottom of a bottle. He was going to tell him and that moment stole his words, his voice lost in the noise of sirens and the smell of hospital disinfectant and the adrenaline of panic attacks. He wore the words, instead, around his neck, beneath his shirt, next to his skin until they leeched back into his subconscious and settled themselves again behind his mantras.

Now _this_ moment, so fucking similar, so goddamned different. No hint of romantic golden oldies, just ridiculous violence and explosions in the dark and… Justin – God! – JUSTIN! This moment _couldn’t_ steal his voice again, couldn’t bury the words beneath broken glass or the bodies of the dead. Wouldn’t. He owned them and they fucking belonged to _him,_ and the goddamned phantoms in the shadows could now fuck off!

He shared the words now, to his lips, as he’d shared them in his ear, the words he’d whispered silently at the edge of sleep so many times:

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable characters and events are the sole property of Cowlip and Showtime. I own nothing.


End file.
